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Athelstan sighed as the ship sailed away from Kattegat. All around him the men seemed to be complaining about women: Bjorn seemed annoyed to have þorunn along for the journey, grumbling about her when she was out of earshot. Rollo grumbled about Siggy. Torstein grumbled about the pair who claimed—probably truthfully—to carry his children. Floki grumbled about how his home life with Helga and Angrbodða was simply too happy. Athelstan had to bite his tongue at this. Helga was one of the sweetest people he’d ever known, and their daughter was adorable. That Floki seemed not to appreciate what he had made him sad for them. In a different world, it was a life he himself would have been perfectly content to enjoy.
This was not, however, a different world. In this one, his domestic life had its own problems, but here the issue was not a woman of his own, but the one to whom his real love was married. He glanced across the water. Lagertha, his beloved’s first wife, stood proud in her own ship, her shieldmaidens and loyal men ready to follow her blue, Fehu-emblazoned banners anywhere. He understood their belief in her, and wondered idly what life might be like under her rule in Hedeby. Wife number two, however, remained back on the shore. Aslaug had said little to Ragnar as they left, and nothing at all to him. He had bid her goodbye, and wished the children, especially Ivar, well, but all he got in return was a tight smile. Ragnar hadn’t noticed this, being busy chatting with Bjorn at the time, and Athelstan hadn’t yet mentioned it. He wasn’t sure he was going to. The farther behind them Kattegat lay, the easier it was to forget the issues the queen raised. His plan for the journey remained the same as it ever had: Being by Ragnar’s side whenever possible, whether for negotiations, establishing the settlement, or, if necessary, battle. Of course, there were other things for which they would also be together, but if he thought about them now, the rest of the waterbourne part of the journey was going to be far too frustrating to bear.
The crossing was uneventful, save for one violent squall two days into it, and then, finally, they were back on English soil and unloading ship upon ship full of people and cargo on the way to settle the farmland King Ecbert had promised. As it had the first time he returned, the smell of the damp, mild air and the sight of the lush, green landscape stirred something deep and childlike within him. This time, however, the pleasant feelings were accompanied by ones far less so. He reflexively closed his fists, the wounds in his palms unaccountably sore as he recalled their origin.
Ragnar seemed to notice his unease. “Everything all right?” He sidled up to Athelstan, settling a reassuring hand a little too low on his waist.
Athelstan took a slight step back, looking around to be certain no-one had noticed the intimate touch, and then put on a smile. “I am well, thank you. Simply remembering things.”
“Things,” Ragnar echoed. He reached for Athelstan’s hand, and his thumb brushed over the scar on the back of it.
This touch was simply too nice for Athelstan to back away from. “Yes,” he said quietly.
“I believe this journey will be different,” Ragnar said, squeezing gently and then letting the hand drop. As he walked away, Athelstan saw Floki, unloading a crate from the ship and staring at them. His stomach went a little queasy.
“Priest!” Torstein came up behind him and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Shall we get on with this? I am parched and in need of some ale. I hope your countrymen make a good brew!”
“They do!” Athelstan smiled, grateful for the interruption. He shouldered his pack, and followed his cheerful friend up the path from the shore.
It felt odd, he noted, to be in a party approaching the king’s dais in the courtyard, rather than being on it as the nobles welcomed the new arrivals. Ecbert’s eyes went first to Ragnar, then flicked to Athelstan. A confused expression crossed his face at first, then one of pleasant surprise and interest. It made Athelstan feel uncomfortable, but in a way he couldn’t quite explain. Perhaps that was why he was so quick to correct Ecbert’s mistake in calling Ragnar an earl. If being garbed as a Northman wasn’t enough to tell the king of Wessex where his loyalty lay, establishing his service to the king of the Northmen would.
Not that doing so had any effect. The travelers were given time and space to refresh themselves after the journey, and Ecbert was not involved in this. However, mere minutes after welcoming them into the hall for an evening’s feast, the king begged Athelstan to sit beside him and act as a translator. With a baleful look back at Ragnar—who in his turn simply winked and smirked knowingly—Athelstan perched gingerly on the chair offered to him and waited while the others filtered in and took their seats.
“How are you, my Athelstan?” Ecbert beamed, slipping an arm around his shoulders and squeezing roughly. He continued without waiting for an answer. “I have missed you. I was certain I would never see you again. You must tell me about that—about what took you away from me.”
“I had to—“ Athelstan began.
“You of course remember Aethelwulf, my son.” Ecbert gestured at the man as he sat down, and Athelstan nodded a greeting. “And his lovely wife Judith, daughter of King Aelle.” The woman stared at him for a moment, then looked away as she took her seat.
“Pleased to see you again,” Athelstan said politely.
“You know, Judith has borne me a grandson!” Ecbert said proudly. “I am well pleased that my line will continue.”
“Congratulations,” Athelstan said, catching Judith’s eye again. “I saw the child as we arrived this afternoon. It seems he is well and bonny.”
“He is, Father,” she replied, again casting her eyes away.
“You needn’t call me that, I am no longer—“
“And our man of the hour!” Ecbert rose, lifting his glass as Ragnar finally sat down at the end of the table once everyone else had chosen a seat. All other pleasantries forgotten, Athelstan sat back, preparing himself to mentally switch languages on the fly.
After a quick promise to meet up again later in the evening, Ragnar headed back out to tell the rest of his warriors of the plans for fighting in Mercia, leaving Athelstan behind in the stone-walled hallways of the villa to lament that fate was going to part them after all. As he was wallowing in self-pity, and wondering whether being stuck here, rather than on the battlefield with Ragnar, was more punishment from God, a wave of memory washed over him. He hesitated for only a moment, and then headed down to a familiar room, his brain already recalling the smell and feel of dusty, crisp rolls of parchment and pungent ink.
Ecbert was already there waiting for him, wasting no time in asking personal questions and returning to him the cross that he had left behind when he made the choice to return to Kattegat—to, he had thought at the time, the life of a pagan.
He clutched the cross in his hand as Ecbert’s questioning continued. It dug a little into his scar, and he winced.
Ecbert seemed entirely unaware of Athelstan’s discomfort. “Your bedchamber is also still as you left it,” he said, with a solicitous smile.
“Sire,” Athelstan began, “I have things I—“
Ecbert glowered for a moment, then replaced the smile. “Oh, come,” he said. “Please.” He took Athelstan’s arm. “I have missed you so very dearly, and I would love to catch up somewhere a little less drafty.”
Athelstan’s will to object died, and he nodded. “Of course, Sire. Lead on.”
When they arrived at the chamber, Athelstan saw that it was, indeed, just as he left it. His cot was even still made-up, and, to his slight surprise, didn’t even have a layer of dust upon the cover.
He turned at the sound of Ecbert closing the door behind them.
“I was surprised that you left here without even saying goodbye,” the king said, a note of sadness in his voice. “I thought we were . . . friends.
Athelstan felt a twinge of pity. “I am sorry for that. I was afraid that you wouldn't take it well.”
“I suppose you're right.” Ecbert sighed. “I wouldn't have. I have had time now to get over my initial anger, and instead I am just hurt. Did I not treat you with kindness? Did I not give you a chance to do again the work that you loved?
Athelstan nodded. “You did. I am forever grateful that you saved me from the . . . what they were doing to me. I am grateful that I had a chance to do that work for you. In leaving, I meant you no slight. But I had to admit to myself that this was not my home.”
“So your home is with the Northmen. With the pagans.” Ecbert’s tone was flat.
“It is,” Athelstan acknowledged. “Much of my heart is still an Englishman—still a Christian—but I realized that my family was elsewhere. I had to return.”
“Is Ragnar your family, then?”
Athelstan hesitated, wondering how much he could truly confess. “He is,” he finally said. “And his wife, and their children. And many of the other people of his household. It is true that they took me captive all those years ago, but they treated me well in that time, and I grew to love them. I could not deny my heart.”
Ecbert drew closer, and lowered his voice. “I did not have your heart at all, then?”
Athelstan shifted uncomfortably. “As I said, I am—“
“Grateful. I know.” Ecbert rubbed his face and stepped away. “Forgive me, Athelstan. I only thought we had a stronger bond. That is all.”
Athelstan scanned Ecbert’s face. For a moment, the powerful king disappeared, and instead he saw only an aging, tired, and perhaps lonely man. His heart softened. “I did care for you, if that's what you want to know.”
Ecbert smiled sadly. “That is something, then.” His eyes scanned Athelstan’s face, and he raised a hand, poised for a caress. Before it reached Athelstan’s cheek, however, he dropped it, and instead sighed again. “Well, I hope that the Northmen know how lucky they are to have you. You are a remarkable person, Athelstan. I pray that they appreciate that.”
“That's very flattering of you to say.” Athelstan dipped his head. “Thank you.”
“However,” Ecbert continued, “I also hope that somewhere in your heart, you remember where you came from and where your people are. I hope you remember that I am of your homeland, and that some, at least, of your home might remain with me.” He reached for Athelstan’s hand, and stroked a finger over the cross clutched within it. “God, I trust, will watch over you in your absence.”
“I am sure he will,” Athelstan said, though in truth, he could not be less certain of that.
A sharp rap at the door interrupted that thought. “Hullo?” The accented voice speaking the Saxon word was pleasantly familiar.
“Ragnar!” Athelstan’s face erupted into a broad smile as he crossed past Ecbert and opened the door. “I’m surprised to see you here.”
Ragnar nodded a greeting at Ecbert, and then quickly switched his focus back to Athelstan. “Eh. I wanted to find you to, uh, ask you something about Mercia. A guard I talked to said he saw you two heading down this corridor.”
Athelstan made a mental note to say a blessing for the guard in question.
“Is this your old room?” Ragnar continued, strolling around and poking at the ephemera. “Not bad. Though I imagine your bed at home is more comfortable.” He shot a slightly too friendly smile at Ecbert, who returned the expression with one of his own.
Athelstan jumped on the opportunity. “It is. The ticking here is filled with straw, while the one at home is wool.”
Ecbert edged his way between them and spoke up. “Well, I am sorry things here were not more comfortable for you,” he said sharply. “Perhaps I can remedy that for your stay here, while the warriors are away doing battle for the princess.” He caught Ragnar’s eye. “I assume your men will be ready for the journey soon?”
Ragnar nodded, unperturbed. “Of course. After a couple of nights’ rest and resupplying, my ships and warriors will be sailing upriver for her cause.”
“Wonderful!” Ecbert clapped a hand on his shoulder.
The room grew uncomfortably quiet for a moment, then Ecbert strode toward the door. “Well. I am sure, Ragnar, that you will be wanting to get back to the chamber I have had prepared for you.”
“I do.” He slid an arm around Athelstan’s shoulders. “Just as soon as I have had a few moments to talk with my . . . Christian friend, here.” He nodded formally at the king. “Do have a good night, King Ecbert. You can sleep well knowing your hospitality is much appreciated.” He smiled broadly.
After a moment’s hesitation, Ecbert finally bid them good night, and stepped away, closing the door behind him a little too loudly.
Athelstan released a breath and sat down on the edge of his old bed, suddenly weary and feeling much like a toy that Ragnar’s sons might have fought over.
“What did he want?” Ragnar nodded toward the door, as he sat down next to Athelstan.
Athelstan shrugged. “Nothing much. Just . . . catching up, I guess.”
Ragnar smirked. “I am sure.” He looked around. “Is this room exactly the same as it was before?”
“Yes. Not a thing has changed, actually. I find it a little odd.”
“I imagine it would be.” Ragnar frowned. “Almost as if . . . well, as if he expected you to come back to it.”
“Perhaps he did,” Athelstan agreed.
“I admit I understand the feeling. Were it not for Jarl Borg occupying Kattegat and tearing it apart, I would have done the same with your quarters there. Once Bjorn found some of your things, I kept them close, so I could feel like you were there with me, too.”
“Like the shirt you gave me?”
Ragnar nodded. “Exactly.”
“I brought that with me, you know.”
“Did you?” Ragnar laughed lightly. “Well, perhaps while you are stuck here in this drafty house and I am busy hacking away at Mercians, you can wear it to remember me.”
“I will. You can be certain of it.” Then, as Ragnar’s lips descended on his, he quickly forgot all thoughts of clothing save how quickly he could remove it.
“What’s that?” Ragnar nodded at the bedside table when they were done. The gold cross had been dropped there as they had fallen into each other’s arms, and it now caught a hint of the moonlight filtering in through the tiny window.
Athelstan rolled over and picked it up. “It was part of my habit while I was here. I had left it behind—along with a ring—when I decided to return to Kattegat, but Ecbert kept it, like he apparently kept everything else of mine.”
“And he wanted you to have it back?” Ragnar took the thing from him, turning it about to look at the craftsmanship.
“He did.” Athelstan watched as Ragnar’s rough fingers traced over the delicate openwork. “I admit, I am sort of glad to have it again.”
“How so?” Ragnar handed it back. “Does it not remind you of . . . the bad things that happened here?”
“I can see how it could, but no. It is the symbol more than the item itself, I suppose. A cross is something that reminds me of God’s love, even if His representatives do not always convey it.”
“So why leave it in the first place, then?”
Athelstan shrugged, and dropped the thing back on the table. “I am not sure. Maybe I thought I needed to leave Christianity completely behind if I was going back to Kattegat.”
“You do not have to do that on my account.”
Athelstan smiled, and kissed Ragnar’s cheek. “I know. I know you are curious to learn about Christianity. But I did not know it then—not really. And I suppose I also wanted to try to be a true Northman—a pagan—if I was going to go back there and feel truly at home.”
“Yet you do not feel at home anyway.”
“Not entirely, no. The only place I feel at home is by your side. I never feel like I belong anywhere else.”
“Well, as far as I’m concerned, this is a home you will always have, whether you are pagan, Christian, or something in between.” Ragnar pulled him close. “You should wear that cross,” he said, nodding at the item. “It is as much a part of you as anything else.”
Athelstan looked at it again, realizing the truth of Ragnar’s words. “All right, then. I will.”
“Besides,” Ragnar continued, “Perhaps it will mean your God will watch over you when I am away and cannot.” He kissed Athelstan’s forehead.
Athelstan smiled. “Perhaps. But who will watch over you?”
Ragnar shrugged. “I am not sure why, but the Allfather has always at least kept me alive, if not always happy. I have no reason to believe he would not do so now.” He grinned, and nuzzled Athelstan’s cheek. “And if that’s not enough, you can always say a prayer for me.”
“I always do anyway.”
“Then there you go. I trust you to ask for your God’s favor on my behalf.”
Athelstan wasn’t sure God would really grant such favors for a pagan Northman, even one who had prayed himself, but the hope did calm him somewhat—enough so that other feelings began to override the worry. He moved closer into Ragnar’s embrace. “I will do so,” he promised, “But right now, I am not quite in the mood for prayer.” He stroked a hand down Ragnar’s back and rolled his hips.
Ragnar squirmed and smiled as he slipped a warm hand between them. “Well, then! Amen to that.”